A Surveillance Van Named Desire
by Swansandsparrows
Summary: Michael and Nikita get locked in the surveillance van on accident. How do they pass the time? Strip poker? Truth or dare? How about all of the above? Sexytime will ensue. **Now Complete!** Don't forget to review!
1. Chapter 1: Slutty Lobster

**A Surveillance Van Named Desire**

**Chapter 1:** Slutty Lobster

**Summary: **Michael and Nikita get locked in the surveillance van on accident. How do they pass the time? _(set in pre-season one, Nikita's still in Division)_

"Since when did my hemline become a tactical decision?" Nikita asked Michael.

"Since Birkhoff couldn't find another excuse to get Amanda to dress you recruits in scraps of fabric," Michael replied. They were sitting in the surveillance van, and he was trying very hard to keep his eyes away from the hemline in question. Nikita's fire-engine red dress had a slit up the side revealing a gratuitous amount of skin, and was scandalously low cut.

"I look like a slutty lobster."

"You look fine," he replied gruffly, turning back to the monitor that showed various camera angles of a cocktail party.

That wasn't the response she was looking for, he could tell by the way her eyes fell. But it wasn't like he could tell her that the eye-catching dress – rather, skimpy excuse for a dress – was driving him crazy. He couldn't tell her that she was his favorite recruit, that she was one of the few who could retain a sense of humor in this place. She was so unbelievably strong... and beautiful... it took everything he had to not verbalize everything he wanted to say to her?

He felt Nikita's eyes on him, but when he glanced up she simply turned away, focusing on putting in her earpiece and testing the volume.

"I'm going in. Got my back?" she asked, all business, all serious.

He nodded, and she opened the back doors, jumping out of the van and heading toward the party.

"Always."

…

Ten minutes later, she emerged from the party, heels in one hand and a black briefcase in the other.

She slid open the door and chucked her stilettos and the briefcase onto the floor of the van, leaping in and slamming the doors.

"Start the van! There's been a complication," she said, shooting a glance back at the party. She had pulled the fire alarm and people were evacuating in droves.

"What happened?"  
>"There's a bomb. I didn't have time to disarm it, but everyone should get out in time – "<p>

Michael scrambled around the van.

"What are you looking for?"

"The keys!"

The van was dark, and wires and monitors covered nearly every inch.

"Where were they last?" Nikita asked.

A laptop tumbled onto the floor with a crunch. Birkhoff was going to love them when they got back.

"Found them!" Nikita said.

_BANG_!

It was too late. A shockwave rattled the van, tossing Michael and Nikita on top of each other.

_BAM_! Another wave of C4 cracked through the night.

The van tipped over, landing on the pavement with a chilling _crunch_ as the metal bent and contorted.

Michael and Nikita had been thrown against the side of the van. Nikita was holding her head, and in the flickering light of one of the broken computers Michael could see a dark mark where a bruise would certainly appear the next day.

"Nikita, are you ok?"

He instinctively slid an arm around her shoulders, his other hand brushing her hair away so he could assess her condition.

Her almond eyes caught his. They were so close. The energy between them was like a livewire, pure electricity kindled by the proximity of their bodies.

Nikita felt the temperature in the van rise.

_Literally_.

One of the computers had caught fire.

"Michael!" She pointed at the flickering flames burning on a stretch of exposed wire. Michael yanked off his suit jacket, quickly putting out the flames.

"We need to catch a cab back to the rendevouz point before the cops get here," he said, hearing sirens in the distance. "Division can't help us if we get caught and thrown to the media."

Nikita nodded. She gingerly stepped over to the back doors, turning the handle to open them. But they were stuck: the metal had become so distorted by the blast that the doors were melded shut.

"They won't open!"

Michael tried the handle, and then threw himself against the door. She was right. "Hold on." He went to the front of the van, and climbed up towards the passenger door that faced the sky. It was stuck as well.

"Can you call Division?"  
>He held it up. It was cracked in two. "All of our equipment is destroyed, too. We're in the dark out here."<p>

"Windows?"  
>"Bulletproof."<p>

"We're stuck here," she realized, slumping against the wall of the van. "And it's only a matter of time before we get caught and framed for the bomb."  
>Michael slid down next to her, contemplating their fate. Division wouldn't help them. If you fell behind, you got left behind.<p>

"Well," he said slowly, "we've probably got a few hours left until the cops are done with damage control and begin canvasing this street."

"So?"

"Might as well find something to pass the time," he said.

A mischievous smile crossed her face as she cocked her head at Michael. "What are you asking?"

"An age-old question."

"I see. What question is that?" her heart started beating erratically.

"Truth or dare?"

_A/N: So I finally broke my writing hiatus. Going to update "Forgetting Josephine" and "We Used to Wait" this weekend, I promise. Also, this one is going really quickly, and I plan on finishing it this weekend as well!  
><em>

_In other news, Nikita is back! Everybody tune in tonight!_


	2. Chapter 2: Bravery and Bare Skin

**A Surveillance Van Named Desire**

**Chapter 2:** Bravery and the Prospect of Bare Skin

**Summary: **Michael and Nikita get locked in the surveillance van on accident. How do they pass the time? _(set in pre-season one, Nikita's still in Division)_

**Previously**: After a mission gone wrong, Michael and Nikita find themselves stuck in a surveillance van awaiting their eventual arrest once the police find them. How do they pass the time? Truth or dare, of course.

"You're serious?" Nikita asked. It was so absurd: Michael, the most serious, uptight man she knew offering to play a game mostly reserved for high-school sleepovers.

"When am I not?" he asked, a tease of a smile playing across his lips. "We've got time," he added softly.

Suddenly, she knew what he was doing. He was trying to make light of their situation. They were in the streets of Prague, in a van full of surveillance equipment and no passports. They might as well have "HI, WE'RE AMERICAN SPIES" written on name tags.

They would be caught, splashed on the news, interrogated, and killed. They were without backup, without a plan B, and Michael knew that; he was trying to lighten the mood for her benefit, and maybe even for his.

It was goddamn _touching_, and no one had ever shown her kindness like this since she arrived at Division. Hell, even before very few had cared about her well-being.

She leaned her head back against the side of the van, a smile in her eyes as she took the bait. "Truth."

"I've got some pretty solid intel that says someone in Division is just a bit more interested in you than he's allowed to be," Michael said, his smoky voice vibrating in her ear. Was he leaning closer on purpose?

"Oh really? Who does your... _source_... indicate as the man in question?"

"I'll give you a hint: he drinks so much Red Bull I'm pretty sure he sweats caffeine, and he has a tendency to request you wear skimpy outfits for tactical reasons. Would you date him?"

Nikita laughs, a bell-like sound, as she recognizes the description of Birkhoff. "What are we, in high school?"

He smiled. "What would you know? High school probably wasn't normal for you." Her eyes darkened. He mentally kicked himself for striking a nerve – he knew her dark past, the abusive foster parent, how she was driven to drugs. And now, he was dredging it all up with a stupid game.

"Doesn't mean I can't pretend," she said lightly, but he could tell she was still stung. "Your turn."

"Truth."

"Wimp," she said. "Dares are for the brave."

"We're spies. We take on dares every day. Being honest? That takes some bravery."

"All right," Nikita whispered. She had a question to ask him. Of course she did; ever since she'd fallen for him within those white halls of Division, she'd longed to know the kinds of thoughts that ran through that guarded mind of his. But being forward – even in this dire situation – was too much of a risk. For her heart.

He saw her hesitation, and that sent his pulse racing. Could he really be honest with her?

"Michael – " she started.

"Dare," he interrupted. She blinked several times, realizing that neither of them were brave enough for the truth. Or, at least, not yet.

Quickly recovering, she grinned. "You asked for it. I dare you..." her eyes swept around the sideways van, looking for good material. She caught sight of a deck of cards. "...to beat me at a game of strip poker." She greeted his alarmed expression with a satisfied smile. "What? Not brave enough for honesty or the fact that I could beat you at cards and get you naked?"

He allowed his eyes to sweep over her body. "I think you forget that I'm wearing much more than you are." His voice was low, raspy. Just the way she liked it.

"Good. Gives you a fighting chance," she teased, a glint of a challenge in her eye.

"Get the cards."

A/N:


	3. I'll Raise You My Pants

**A Surveillance Van Named Desire**

**Chapter 3:** I'll Raise You My Pants

**Summary: **Michael and Nikita get locked in the surveillance van on accident. How do they pass the time? _(set in pre-season one, Nikita's still in Division)_

**Previously**: After a mission gone wrong, Michael and Nikita find themselves stuck in a surveillance van awaiting their eventual arrest once the police find them. How do they pass the time? Strip poker, of course.

Never had Michael been so serious about a game of poker.

On missions, he specifically stayed away from those fuzzy green casino tables and the click of poker chips. Mind games were Percy's things. He was a soldier at heart: efficient, no-frills, surefire plans.

Nikita, however, did have a penchant for the spontaneous. That's what made her a challenging opponent in a game so dependent on reading your opponent. And there was no way in _hell_ he was going to get him naked before her. This was no ordinary game of strip poker. This was a _pride_ thing for him.

They cleared out a space by the back of the vans, chucking the fried computer bits and wires into the front.

"If only the Nerd could see this mass grave," Nikita sighed, gracefully sitting across from Michael. "He'd have a heart attack."

"If his eating habits haven't gotten to him first," Michael said, dealing the final card with an efficient _snap_. For Michael, this was game time, and everything was at stake. For Nikita, she was so used to donning itty bitty red bikinis and ultrashort dresses that there wasn't too much else to bare. But to see what he so carefully hid beneath the lines of those tailored suits... she shivered at her indecent thoughts.

"Texas hold 'em rules. No blinds. Clothes as currency. You lose the round, clothes come off. You fold, nothing happens. But no folding each time, deal?" She smiled as he stared intently at his hand, trying to remember the rules.

"Prepare to get naked," he said wickedly, his deep voice and sexy half smile making her shudder.

She reached under the corners of the two cards that lay face down in front of her.

"Check," she said, indicating that she wasn't going to bet this round.

"Oh, a little nervous are we?" he teased.

Damn. He was too overconfident. What if he had a good hand? She mentally calculated her clothes. _Dress, a pair of stilettos. After that, she better be winning._

"That's fine. I'll pass as well."

"The term is check," she said irritably, dealing three more cards out.

Hell yes! A straight. _Take that Michael_. "I bet one shoe," she said, playing it safe.

"I raise you two shoes," he said after checking his cards.

She narrowed her eyes, and he crossed his arms, cocking his head; challenging her without a word in only the way he could.

"I call that bet. Deal another card," she said, not taking the bait.

He dealt one more. She looked at the the face up cards. He could have a flush... she glanced up, catching him watching her.

"Like what you see?" she flirted, the double entendre rolling easily off her lips.

"I'll like it even more after this round," he growled.

_Damn him and his freaking delicious voice_, she thought, getting nervous. Hell with it.

"I'll raise you a dress," she countered, leaning forward. Her face was inches away from hers, her eyes alight with the thrill of the game.

"I'll call your bet with my tie," he said. She rolled her eyes. He had way too many layers.

"Last card. Deal it." She sat on edge. _Please be bluffing, please be bluffing..._

He set down the card. Did he grimace? She thought, but his face remained unreadable as he glanced up at her.

"Any final bets?"

"Check," she said. The tension was palpable. _Who was going to win?_

_A/N: Let's hear it for sexual tension, everybody! There really needs to be more of this on the show, no lie. Craig Silverstein, you listening?_


	4. Going Commando for the Win

**A Surveillance Van Named Desire**

**Chapter 4:** Going Commando

**Summary: **Michael and Nikita get locked in the surveillance van on accident. How do they pass the time? _(set in pre-season one, Nikita's still in Division)_

**Previously**: After a mission gone wrong, Michael and Nikita find themselves stuck in a surveillance van awaiting their eventual arrest once the police find them. How do they pass the time? Strip poker, of course. _**And now, to reveal the winner of the strip poker round...**_

"Show your cards then," he said. He dropped his cards, looking smug.

"Three of a ki – "

"Straight," she said confidently. Straight beat flush. Which meant... "I won. _Strip_."

He frowned. He had been so sure she had been the one bluffing. "Warm up round?"

"Nope. Strip."

"So bossy..." he took off his tie, casting it aside with his shoes. "Congrats. Now I'm practically nude."

Nikita smirked at his feigned modesty. "Four to three. I'm winning."

"Check your math. I've got a dress suit and pants, and all you've got is a dress and heels." A beat. "Two stilettos, a dress, and...?"

"Regrettably, this ensemble doesn't work with a bra."

Michael groaned, and repeatedly banged his head repeatedly against the side of the van.

"Nikita," he whispered, keeping his eyes closed.

"Yes?"

"This is wildly inappropriate."

"But Michael, that's why it's so _fun_. Of course, if you didn't want to continue..."

"_Deal the cards_." Was it just her, or did his voice sound a little hoarse? She smirked inwardly.

Three cards.

"Check." he said, playing it safe and not betting.

"I'll bet two shoes."

He looked up. "You know what? I'll raise you one more article of clothing." He sat back, crossing his arms. Oh, how she'd love to wipe that smug smile off of his face.

Instinct told her to fold. But if she won... well, he was _all in._

"I'll call your bet. Deal the rest of the cards."

He dealt the flop. And then the final two cards. She glanced at her cards, her heart pounding. A full house. She had a full house.

With a grin, she tossed her cards down.

He looked at her cards and nodded. "Good try, but no dice." He tossed down his cards. Damn. An ace. And... _a straight flush._

"Let's see... what were your words? Oh, I remember._ I won. Strip._" His eyes were teasing, but there was something darker hiding under the surface. Pure, unadulterated, _lust_.

She knew she could just walk away, declare the game over. He'd respect her wishes, but never let her live it down. He was a gentlemen. But fueling that dark fire? Oh, that was something she could oblige to.

She reached down, the hem of her fire-red skirt riding higher as she bent her leg and gracefully removed her shoe; flexing her toes, she reached down for her other shoe, watching his eyes rake across her bared skin as – with painstaking slowness – gently removed it and locked eyes with him as she tossed her last shoe aside.

"Happy?"

He cleared his throat, adjusting his trousers. "That's only two. We bet three."

"Did we? My fault."

She rose to her feet, and she saw him tense, as if holding himself back.

Nikita hesitated, contemplating, holding him in suspense.

Michael's eyes were glued on her delicate hands as they traveled up the sides of her legs, toward the hem of her dress...

...and her hands dipped underneath, hooking around the strings of a lacy scrap of fabric, pulling it downward, stepping out of her third piece of clothing.

"Your turn to deal," she remarked casually, sitting down and folding her legs in a ladylike manner that kept everything hidden.

He blinked, swallowing hard. He grabbed the cards, and quickly dealt. He was going to win this last round if it killed him.

"Check."

She looked at her two cards, and back at him. Then, a leisurely: "Check."

Three cards are dealt.

"Check."

"Check."

This was a close round. Neither had definitive hands.

Fourth card.

"I bet... one article of clothing." his eyes leveled with hers.

"I call that bet," she said, not backing down even though it was all she had left...

_The last card._

She could hear his pulse racing. They had unconsciously lessened the gap between them, and it was as if some sort of static force was drawing them together, two magnets straining to come together.

"Ladies first," he growled.

She placed her cards down. An ace, but nothing more.

He looked at her cards and groaned in defeat, slapping his cards down. He had a king and a two, and therefore, had lost.

"You know the rules, Michael," she teased.

He gave her a withering look. "You know, I think I'll invoke the clause that says I can opt out of – "

But she didn't let him finish. She tossed the cards aside, her lips crashing against his. Electricity flowed between them, and he felt a hand tangle in her hair. Another, on the small of her back, roughly pulling her closer. She broke the kiss, her hands sliding down to his shirt, tearing at the buttons with shaking hands. His lips migrated to her neck.

"Michael!" She cried out, groaning as his tongue darted out and licked her earlobe.

She frantically finished unbuttoning him, her slender hands making contact with his warm chest. _Finally_. She could enjoy the fruit of her victory.

Suddenly, he grabbed her hands, looking into her eyes. She knew that look. _Too well._

"Nikita – "

"No. Michael, you can't make it about the rules. This can't about Division. _We_ can't be."  
>The desperation in her voice, the fear of rejection – it pained him. But they were about to be interrupted. "Except... it is."<p>

A noise outside of the van.

"Agents Michael and Nikita! Are you in there?"

Nikita muttered a strand of obscenities, damning Division to hell for being a 'cockblock.' Somehow, the words were humorous coming from her, and Michael laughed softly.

"We're here," he called out, buttoning up his shirt. Nikita slid on her heels, and Michael helped her stand up.

"We're not done," she said seriously, and he felt her hand pushing something lacy into his pocket.

The Division tactical team wrenched open the back doors of the van.

The broken computers. The crushed lampshade. The scattered cards. The clothing hanging askew. It was quite a scene, but the Division team was too tired to care about anything besides getting them out of the country.

After helping Nikita out of the van, Michael adjusted his suit jacket. Two aces came tumbling out of his sleeve. Nikita stared at him in shock.

"You cheated!" she realized, trying to keep her voice down. She couldn't decide if she should be angry or... flattered.

He shrugged. "I am a spy, you know."

"So am I," she conceded, and pulled an ace out from inside the front of her dress

"Wait, can you show me again where that ace came from?"

"We're scheduling a rematch," she growled, shooting daggers at the Division team. Never had she been so angry at being found.

His signature half smile curled across his lips as he gazed at her, deciding that he loved a woman in red.

"What? Checkin' out my tacky dress, Michael?" She teased. He stepped closer to her, his hand traveling across her collarbone.

"You may look like a slutty lobster, but you're _my_ slutty lobster," he murmured, his breath tickling her ear. He abruptly stepped back, and shot her one last smile before the Division team ushered them into a black SUV.

Slutty lobster or not, she had always belonged to him.

_A/N: For you literary geniuses out there, the title of this fic "A SURVEILLANCE VAN NAMED DESIRE" is a play off of Tennessee Williams' play, "A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE." Why? Because I love Tennessee Williams, and I like to pretend that I'm some badass writer who can pull off stealing titles from famous works and slyly sneaking in allusions to their work (like the lampshade in this piece). But, alas, I'm not there yet._

_So next up on my list of classic titles to butcher is: "Goodbye to Arms."_

_Or, as it shall now be called "Hello to Legs." _

_After I issue written apologies to all these great writers of course._

_New Nikita next week everybody! Count down the days :)_


End file.
